Living with a Ghost
by The Mocking J
Summary: Maybe living with your best friend's ghost won't be so bad after all. Part 3: With Claire's help, Hershel faces the ghosts of his past. (AU)
1. Chapter 1

**[[A**_** looong overdue RanHen request for**_ **Noe-Izumi _on Deviantart._**

**Set: _An AU oneshot- think The Sixth Sense- set during the MM flashbacks after Randall... ya_ know. Spoilers for MM.]] **

* * *

Living with a Ghost

Henry Ledore could see the dead.

Many in Stansbury considered him... Different? Unnerving? Odd? People were agitated by his cold gaze, by the way he would seemingly mutter to himself, and generally gave him a wide-berth. This suited Henry fine. He could go about his chores without others disturbing him, none the wiser of his supernatural encounters.

The first spirit he saw was his mother's. She had been a maid working for the Ascots, but died before Henry was old enough to remember her. So, he was very shocked to find her floating through the halls of Ascot Manor one night. She introduced herself, asked him not to be afraid, and proceeded to explain the 'gift' he had inherited.

From then on, Henry received all sorts of ghostly visitors. An ancient queen wishing to be reborn, a stubborn duke stricken down by some disease, an old crone obsessed with puzzles, an unfortunate street urchin, a lady pining for her lost sons, unable (or refusing) to depart until she'd said goodbye to them...

There was only a single living person he had ever shared his secret with; his best friend and young master, Randall Ascot. It was back when they were ten years old, sometime after Randall had given him his cherished toy robot. Randall didn't recoil or laugh. He was amazed, particularly when Henry discussed his meeting with a deceased archaeologist, Donald Rutledge.

Randall was vocal about many subjects, but never Henry's secret. Not even to his parents, Angela, Dalston, or Hershel Layton. The most Randall did was assure Angela that her brother was still alive, somewhere. (At least, Henry had never seen him.)

It was a huge relief that Henry had someone to talk to. If not for Randall, he would have gone insane over the years of dealing with his 'gift'...

Then, at only seventeen, Randall Ascot died. Henry didn't want to— _couldn't—_ believe it. Layton claimed Randall had fallen into a deep ravine. There was no sign of a body, so nothing was for certain. Henry could spend his entire life combing Akbadain until he discovered Randall's fate.

But how could Henry deny the truth, with Randall's ghost stood here before him?

The boy who had once been so full of life was now as faded as an old cotton sheet_. _The sunlight streaming into Randall's room/shrine went right _through _him. He was missing his glasses and his left shoe. His hair was more grey than ginger, his dark eyes were empty, and the paleness of his skin accented the— the bruises he had collected.

Take away those aspects and it would almost be like Randall had just raced home from school. Like he wasn't... _like he wasn't really... _

Henry jammed the heels of his hands into eyes. He cried, "M-Master Randall, you can't be d-_dead_!"

"Sorry, Henry..." Randall winced; his voice little more than an echo. "I... I think I am. Hershel couldn't pull me up— I fell a long way down and hit something hard. Probably the ground."

Henry gasped, "Stop describing it, please! This wasn't supposed to happen. You promised Miss Angela you would return. You promised _ME!"_

"And I _have _returned," Randall was caught between laughter and a sob. He flung his arms out and spun around the bedroom. (No— _flew!_) "I'm _here, _aren't I? At least you can see me and we can still chat."

Henry hiccupped, "I guess that's something... And I can make everyone else believe in you."

Randall shook his head sternly. "No, Henry. You'll ruin your life doing that. My parents will send you away, and then we definitely won't see each other again." His face sank. "Dad probably won't miss me. Heck, he's always been fond of you— you could take over the family business in my place! Just swear you'll look after him and Mum."

"I swear," Henry vowed with his hand over his heart. "What about Miss Angela?"

"I never got the chance to propose to her..." Randall said in broken whisper. He sighed, "I-It's too late now. I don't want her to worry about me forever. She needs to move on— you all do."

"Layton has no doubts about moving on," Henry muttered.

His ghostly friend frowned. "Don't blame Hershel. Sure, I always told him he could've used a little more arm muscle, but it was my idea to explore the ruins—"

Henry quickly changed the subject, "I'll also continue your research for you, though I won't take any credit."

"If that's what will make you happy," Randall forced an evil grin. "Meanwhile, I'll be up here haunting Ascot Manor like, um, a poltergeist or whatever you call it. You _need _to invite Dalston over so I can prank him!" (Even Dalston was going to miss him...)

"Whenever things go bump in the night, I'll know where to look," Henry smiled. He added, "A-and even if I'm not here, my mother's ghost still dwells at the manor from time to time. You'll never be utterly alone."

"Neither will you," Randall assured him.

Henry dried the last of his tears for today. His wonderful gift allowed him to keep in contact with Randall, which was more than some could ever ask for. Even beyond the grave, their bond would endure. And if the time ever arrived for Randall to move on, Henry would keep his memory alive.

Life would go on.


	2. Chapter 2

In life, Randall Ascot had had many wild ambitions. Attending his own funeral was not one of them.

Technically, his spirit was bound to Ascot Manor, so he hadn't watched the part where everyone gathered around his gravestone. (Henry assured him it was placed in pleasant spot at the Memory Knoll.) However, they returned to his house for the wake. That was a weird word to describe the dreary after-party, Randall thought, considering the dead would never 'wake' again.

Unless you came back as a ghost, that is.

He wasn't the only spectral spectator. Henry's mother, Alice hovered beside him in the living room as the guests got up to commemorate Randall. His father, stoned-faced as ever, stated how proud he was of his bright, brave, brilliant son. He didn't shed a tear. Mrs Ascot did; many, many times.

"I'm so sorry, Mum," Randall whispered. His sole response was Alice placing a hand on his shoulder. He couldn't feel her touch, but the sentiment was still there.

The manor staff lamented that their Young Master had been such a polite, considerate lad, Margot the housekeeper included. (Funny, Randall thought she had considered him a pest.) Kids from school who used to roll their eyes at him recalled how he would constantly make them smile. One girl burst into tears, wishing she had told him how she "truly felt". Even Mr Collins— _Cranky Old Collins!— _recounted that he had been an ardent pupil, adored by classmates and teachers alike.

Randall had wanted to be remembered, but not like this. He was meant to go down in history as an archaeological hero— not some careless kid who kicked the bucket!

Maybe he would feel better if his best friends spoke of the adventures they had shared, of the memories they had made. Henry sat stiffly amongst the other servants, his head bowed. Randall had hoped he would write a eulogy, but Henry couldn't find the words.

It was a relief to see Angela huddled between her parents, despite the silent tears trailing down her cheeks. According to Henry, she hadn't been going to school.

Hershel didn't dare show his face today.

As for Dalston..._Where was Dalston?_ Much to Randall's surprise, he arrived with the others (probably dragged along by his parents), though he wasn't in the living room now. Randall drifted into the kitchen, and the hall. No sign of Dalston. The phantom boy hummed when he heard something upstairs. It could only be one person, unless they had another ghost up there.

He glided up through the ceiling— being a ghost did have _some_ perks— until he reached his bedroom. Thankfully, his parents had kept it in the same condition since he left, but they didn't catch the odd item that would shift about. It took Randall a lot of practice and focus to move the smallest of things; rocks, paper, old toys... Only Henry would notice whenever he nipped in to 'dust'. Both he and Alice had told Randall to be discreet.

Something he was struggling to do at the moment with Dalston standing in the room.

"Hope you're happy, Bratscot."

Randall froze. There was no way Dalston could know he was here... _Was there?_ He moved directly in front of the living boy, waving a hand in his face. "Hellooooo!"

Dalston remained oblivious; he continued muttering to himself and gazed around the room. "Angela's besides herself, Henry's acting weirder than usual and Layton's skipping town."

"You think I _wanted_ this to happen?" Randall demanded.

"Won't be much longer till I'm gone too. I told you I wasn't going to let anything hold me back. Nothing personal, just mooching round Stansbury doesn't do any good."

First Hershel, now Dalston was leaving. What if Angela decided to go next, or even Henry?

Randall didn't want them to put their lives on hold for him, but clearly, everyone was suffering already. Filled with regret, their friendship was falling apart. It was too late to help Hershel, but he could still make peace between the others. Starting with Dalston.

Ignoring Henry and Alices' warnings, he concentrated on lifting a pen over to his large map covering the wall.

Dalston perked up when the pen's lid landed on the floor, and turned to see pen scribbling something on the wall:

_"NO RISK, NO GLORY."_

Dalston's reaction was comical, though not the one Randall had hoped for. No sooner had he reassembled his slack jaw, Dalston tore out of the room and downstairs.

Randall groaned. Now he'd done it. Dalston would claim that the manor was haunted, and Henry would be questioned since he visited the room most frequently. Then the pair would hate each other even more.

Randall had just made the situation worse. Like he always did.

Dejectedly, he curled up on his unmade bed, not daring to pull the covers over him.

Ghosts didn't feel the cold. They also didn't need to breathe. However, Randall's breath caught when Dalston returned to the room, followed by Angela and Henry.

"I'm telling you, the thing was moving on its _own_ and it wrote_ this_-" Dalston a jabbed a finger at Randall's message.

Henry was silent. Angela sighed, "Dalston, are you sure that wasn't written before today?"

"I'm dead serious!" Angela and Henry flinched at his choice of words. Dalston added, "I wouldn't lie to you, Angela!"

Angela turned to Henry. "Do you know what's going on?" Henry bit his lip.

Randall flew to Henry's side, begging, "Tell them I'm here. Please, Henry! I want them to know- I want us to be together again."

Slowly, Henry revealed, "Master Randall... is still with us."

Angela touched the pendant at the base of her throat. "I... I know he is. Everyone says that, but it doesn't explain why-"

"I mean, he is in this very room."

"Either that or the pen's possessed," Dalston pointed out.

Angela gasped as Randall added: _"I'M HERE— RANDALL." _She staggered to the wall and ran her fingers across the handwriting— _his _horrible handwriting. With a watery smile, she looked at the floating pen, right _at _him.

"Angie..."

"Oh, Randall," she breathed. "This is... This is..."

"Messed up," Dalston rubbed his forehead, glancing at Henry. "You knew he was there the whole time?"

"Yes. I can communicate with ghosts."

Considering their friend was back from the grave, Angela and Dalston were inclined to believe anything.

Dalston groaned, "Blimey, Bratscot! Even in death you're driving everyone insane!"

Randall replied, _"Satan says hi, Dalston." _

For the first time in ages, Angela laughed out loud. She wiped a mirthful tear from her eye. "I've missed you so much- we all have. But now that you're back, things will get better, won't they?"

Henry cut in, "I'm afraid no one else can know of Master Randall's presence, o-or my gift."

"Not even Mrs Ascot?" Angela's face fell when Henry shook his head.

"We should probably head back downstairs," Dalston looked at the door. "Everyone will be wondering where we are."

Angela nodded and smiled at Randall once more. "W-we'll see you again soon." Hesitantly, she held her hand out. Randall placed his own palm in hers. He couldn't touch her, but she was still here for him. "I love you," she whispered.

Randall swallowed but didn't answer. She wouldn't know the difference, anyway.

"If I have some time before I leave town, I might... drop in with Angela," Dalston shrugged, "Only 'cause I don't want you haunting me."

Randall chucked the pen at him.


	3. Chapter 3

**[[Spoilers: _Some for Lost Future and of course, Miracle Mask._]]**

* * *

_"Dearest Hershel,_

_I hope this letter finds you well. I've read that you are set to become the youngest professor in the history of Gressenheller University. Congratulations, Hershel… or should I say, Professor Layton!_

_It's difficult to believe it has nearly been 10 years._

_I'm sure this letter comes as quite a surprise, but I must ask for your help._

_We have experienced a series of supernatural incidents here in Stansbury._

_I hope you can forgive me after all these years. I don't know who else I can turn to._

_I cannot give you the full details now. However, if you can spare the time, I shall tell you all upon your return to Stansbury. We are in desperate need of your help, Hershel._

_Henry and I are now living at the old Ascot Manor._

_I hope to see you soon._

_Angela Ledore"_

"Angela… After all these years…"

Claire had been on her way out, but Hershel appeared so shocked by the letter she'd handed him that she peeked over his shoulder. "What's wrong? You look like you've seen a ghost!" Half-dazed, Hershel showed her the letter. She read it and hummed. "Who is this mysterious Angela?"

"Angela was my friend when I went to school in Stansbury. Our relationship became… strained."

"Oh, right." Claire's tone was no longer teasing. "Was this after the accident?" The accident in which Hershel lost a friend, and made him so reserved when Claire first met him.

Hershel touched the brim of his new top hat. "I'm afraid so." He was so content a minute ago… Claire had hoped that, after all of his hard work, he would finally be able to relax.

Claire glanced at the clock, biting her lip. She grabbed Hershel's hand. "I know this is hard, but maybe you should think things over before rushing off to Stansbury. You can write to Angela. Surely she can hold on a few days…"

"A gentleman never ignores the request of a lady," Hershel mumbled, "especially an old friend." Hadn't Claire always admired his efforts to be a true gentleman?

Angela needed him. Hershel needed to make amends with her— with his past. Only then would they be able to move forward.

"That's it. I'm coming with you."

Hershel blinked at her. "But your big experiment—"

"I'll call my colleague and tell him reschedule it." Bill could wait, and so could time. Claire turned to the telephone. "There were some complications we needed to look into, anyway."

"Claire, you can't." Hershel stood up, reaching for her. "You've been so passionate about this project. You said it could change the future—"

She kissed him with all of her passion. She pulled back, resting her forehead against his. He couldn't look away from her eyes. "Your happiness— our future— is more important to me. I won't let you go alone, so start packing." He nodded dazedly and she dialled the lab's number. "Besides," she laughed, "I like the sound of being a supernatural investigator."

* * *

Stansbury's geography and climate were astounding. Bordering the town was a desert, home to some ancient ruins according to Hershel. However, the town itself was blessed with abundant trees, lush green hills and a gushing river.

What it lacked was life.

"It's a ghost town," Claire breathed. She and Hershel were stood on the edge of an empty marketplace.

Hershel raised an eyebrow at her. "I presumed, given your profession, that you wouldn't believe in that sort of thing."

"Figure of speech." Claire grinned sheepishly. "But it doesn't hurt to speculate—" She was cut off by a howl. "What was that?"

"A woodland animal, most likely," Hershel dismissed, though he ushered her along. "Let's get to Ascot Manor— Angela and Henrys' house." He gripped her arm as they passed boarded up shops and stalls. "My uncle told me people started moving away after the accident. I never imagined it would be so… desolate." He frowned. Seeing his childhood home like this have hurt. The people he had known from the close-knit community were probably gone. Claire could only imagine how he felt, having been born and raised amidst the bustle of London.

Claire leaned against his shoulder, trying to lift his spirits. "I'm lucky I have a true gentleman to protect me."

This coaxed a chuckle from Hershel. "I doubt it will come to that…" He trailed off as something darted across their vision. Something dark with flashing eyes and sharp teeth. It looked like a dog— the angriest dog Claire had ever met.

"Stay still," Claire warned in a low voice. The dog should leave them alone as long as they didn't agitate it—

The dog growled and charged.

"Run!" Hershel shoved her aside. He tripped and suddenly the dog was on top of him, determined to tear his hat from his head.

"Hershel!" Claire glanced around, spotted a stick and picked it up. She waved it at the dog. "Get back!" The beast's ears perked up. "Fetch!" She threw the stick as far as she could. The dog thundered after it.

Claire helped Hershel to his feet. "That stick won't distract it for long. Which way is Ascot Manor?"

Hastily, Hershel led her out of the market, over a grassy knoll and a small stream, until they reached a mansion. Apart from the ivy infested walls, it was the kind of house Claire dreamed of sharing with Hershel.

"It's huge," Claire gasped.

Hershel had been gazing up at a window on the third floor. "Hm? Yes, it is." He went to knock on the front door. Claire heard a bell ringing. Strange— there didn't seem to be a doorbell…

_Smash!_ An object flew threw a third-floor window. Hershel ducked before it could hit him. Claire stooped to pick up the projectile— a sharp rock. She glared at the shattered window. "Who threw that?"

The front door opened and a woman with curled blonde hair dashed out. "Not again… Hershel, you're here! I hope you're not hurt…"

Hershel fixed his hat. "We're quite alright, thank you, Angela."

"I'm so sorry. This isn't at all how I wanted to welcome you. Come inside, quickly... And who might you be?" Angela addressed Claire cordially, but there was a hint of caution in her voice.

Claire introduced herself as they followed Angela into the house. They sat in the living room (much fancier than the one in Claire and Hershels' flat). Angela listened as they described their encounter with the dog.

"That sounds like Dalston's dog, Prince," Angela said.

"Dalston is here as well?" Hershel asked.

"Yes. He visits us occasionally when he can get away from his hotel. I saw him earlier, but then he went out into town, searching for Prince. Since they arrived, Prince has been acting unusually aggressive. It's almost as if he's… well…"

"Possessed?" Claire supplied.

"You could say say that," Angela sighed. "It's just one of the many oddities to happen here. There have also been frightening noises, breakages and flying objects, as you've seen."

Claire hummed, still clutching the rock. "Which room did this come from?"

Hershel answered with Angela, "Randall's bedroom."

With every step they took up to the third floor, Hershel tensed. Claire understood. She offered him her hand. He held on as if he feared she (or he) would slip away.

Angela brought them into Randall's room and stood in the doorway, arms folded across her chest. She was waiting for their judgement.

Claire released Hershel's cold hand to inspect the room. The broken window was above an untidy bed. (A teenage boy's bed.) Shards of glass, books and treasures littered the floor. No doubt, Randall had been an archaeology enthusiast...

Suddenly, she felt some force tug at her hand. The rock leapt out of her palm and hovered before her. Hershel pulled her away, eyes wide.

"How?" Claire gasped. "I couldn't feel any hidden strings. Maybe the rock is magnetic…?" Her speculations died as the rock scratched a name into the wall by the bed:

_'HERSH'_

"Angela, what are you doing in here?" someone demanded. The stone dropped to the floor. A stern-looking man had materialised in the doorway. He scowled at Hershel. "I said he was allowed to visit, but how could you let him enter Randall's room?"

Hershel gave him a civil nod. "Henry."

"You requested Hershel's help," Angela said. "I assumed you wanted him to see the oddities for himself."

"What are you talking about? You're the one who called him here."

"Excuse me for interrupting," Hershel said, pulling out the letter. "But this is indeed signed in your name, Angela."

"W-what?" Angela's eyes widened. She glared at Henry. "Why would you pretend to be me? Were you ashamed to contact Hershel?"

Henry shot back, "For the last time, I didn't write it."

"I saw you! You_ told_ me you were sending it to him."

Henry rubbed his head. "I have no recollection of writing that letter, or suggesting I would do so. Now, let's all go downstairs and try to make sense of this."

Hershel and Claire looked at each other. They shot one last glance at the engraving on the wall before heading out.

When four of them were back in the living room, Henry poured them some tea and pondered over the letter. "Could it be Dalston's idea of a childish prank?"

"I don't think so," Angela replied. "He's been too worried about Prince lately..."

"Maybe the ghost wrote it," Claire quipped.

Henry acknowledged her for the first time. Claire met his stare head-on. He may have held a grudge against Hershel, but that was no excuse for his rudeness.

"That's impossible," Henry murmured. "Whoever is responsible must be living under this roof."

Claire challenged, "How do you explain the levitating objects—?"

Before he could reply, the front door slammed shut. A rough voice hollered, "We're back!"

Claire and Hershel jumped when the dog— Prince, burst into the room. He was followed by a bulky man with sideburns, who gaped at Hershel and Claire. "Layton? Hershel Layton? Fancy seeing you here... and with a lovely missus!"

"I'm his girlfriend, Claire," she corrected him, grinning.

"Apologies. Name's Alphonse Dalston. This is Prince." Dalston pointed to his pet.

"Yes, we... ran into him earlier." Hershel watched as Prince circled the room and rested his head on Angela's lap. "He seems much more placid now."

Dalston rubbed his chin. "Yeah… The tyke's back to his old self now."

"Did something spook him earlier?" Claire wondered.

Henry stood up, gathering the teacups together. "Perhaps he simply had a funny turn. You should take him to the vet, Dalston. The closest one is in Corkshire, three miles outside of Stansbury."

"Maybe I will later," Dalston retorted. He turned to Angela when Henry had left the room. "What've I done now?"

"He believes you wrote the letter that brought Hershel here."

"I would _never…!"_ He looked at Hershel. "I mean, no offence, Layton, but it's not like we were best mates back in school. I don't even know where you live now."

"It's no problem," Hershel said. "I only wish I could have heard about your… predicament sooner. Perhaps if I'd made a greater effort to stay in touch—"

"Don't put yourself down," Angela sighed. "You were all the way in London. You couldn't have known." She closed her eyes and touched a gold pendant she was wearing. "I'm... sorry I pushed you away, Hershel. But honestly, getting out of Stansbury was the best decision you could have made. You weren't trapped here like the rest of us—"

Suddenly, the house shook. Claire, Hershel and Angela hung on to their seats. Dalston was knocked off his feet. Prince crawled under the table, whimpering. A stack of china plates exploded out of their cabinet and spun around the room. Claire felt like she was caught in the center of a hurricane, holding onto Hershel for dear life.

"I DIDN'T MEAN IT LIKE THAT!" Angela cried over the chaos. "I'M SORRY! PLEASE, JUST CALM DOWN!"

Hershel commanded, "Stop this, Randall."

The shaking subsided. Pieces of china fell to the floor, forming the words:

_'MY ROOM'_

"Let's hurry," Claire said. Hershel nodded and they rushed upstairs. Angela and Dalston followed them in guilty silence.

They found Henry in the middle of Randall's room, facing the wall with the engraving. He was talking to himself. "Sorry, Henry. But Hershel needs to hear the truth…" Finally, he turned to them. His blue eyes appeared darker.

Henry...?" Angela started.

He shook his head and grinned; the expression seemed unnatural for Henry.

Hershel smiled back, a tad nervously. "Hello, Randall."

Dalston burst out, "Wha- what are you doing in Henry's body?"

Randall explained, mostly for Claire and Hershel, "Henry can talk to ghosts. Since I'm a ghost, I'm kind of able to talk_ through_ him."

"That's... incredible," Claire gasped.

"It's not very fair to Henry but I didn't know what else to do," Randall sighed. "One night I asked him if we could contact Hershel, but he refused. He wouldn't share my idea with Angela and he removed all the pens from my room. I got so angry..."

"So you started throwing things around the house," Dalson muttered.

Randall winced. "Then I... took control of Henry's body and wrote the letter in Angela's name. I knew you wouldn't let her down, Hershel..." He smiled. "You never let me down."

"Thank you," Hershel whispered. Claire put her arm around him.

Next, Randall addressed Dalston. "I'm glad you achieved your dream... but you still came back for us."

Dalston wiped his nose with his sleeve. "Don't get sappy on me, Ascot."

"And Angela..."

"Yes, Randall?"

"Don't forget me—" Randall's breath hitched. She ran across the room and hugged him. He gasped, "I'm s-sorry you had to wait for so long- all of you... Promise me you'll all stay friends after this?"

They all promised to try their best. Randall smiled and closed his eyes for a moment, saying goodbye to Henry. Henry's brow furrowed. He said in a detached voice, "There's another ghost... about to depart... wants to... gloat? To Claire..."

Claire was confused "Me?"

"Says he saw the future— he'll go down in history as the first time-traveler."

"It can't be... Bill?" Claire cried. "Did the machine work? What happened?"

Henry shook his head. "He just said there's a boy you and Dimitri need to take care of. A-and… asked you to tell Caroline he said goodbye. He's leaving with Randall…" Tears leaked from the corners of Henry's eyes. He crumpled to the floor, shaking with sobs. Angela and Dalston crouched beside him.

Hershel stayed next to Claire; still, he lowered the brim of his hat. Claire hugged him. Despite his arrogance, she would miss Bill. He wanted to be remembered… just like Randall.

* * *

_**[[The Conjuring 2 gave me the inspiration I needed to finish this... along with a load of nightmares. That's the last time I watch a horror film.]]**_


End file.
